Vixen (39 page)

Then she heard Sebastian’s voice, booming from his office. Not out playing bridge after all.

“All the more reason to clean house, Carlito. Don’t want to give him time to rally his black gang or get out of town. Just hit him as soon as possible. Yeah, it’s the address I gave you in Bronzeville. Two B. You take care of him, and I’ll take care of her. She’s a little bit of nothing.”

Gloria put her hand over her mouth, stopping her breath. Carefully, with her other hand, she opened the drawer in the table under the mirror, feeling for the red velvet pouch she knew was tucked away in the back. Bastian had informed her that he kept it there “for security,” in case of a burglary.

Once she was safely back in the foyer, noiselessly shutting the front door behind her, she took her hand away from her mouth and breathed in.

Bastian knew Carlito? They were working together? Carlito was a gangster. Why would he be taking orders from her fiancé? And how did Bastian know where Jerome lived? She had to get to Jerome. She had to warn him. Save him.

The elevator arrived.

Bastian’s voice echoed through the door. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The pouch was heavy in her hands—much heavier than she’d expected. She dropped it into her bag just as the elevator doors hissed open.

In the lobby, Martin the doorman asked, “Did you leave Mr. Grey’s surprise?”

“I sure did,” Gloria said, trying to mask her nerves as she pictured the small black pistol resting inside her purse.

CLARA

Clara stared into the gaping mouth of the suitcase on her bed. Her clothes were packed in tightly pressed and folded stacks, courtesy of Claudine. That was all her life in Chicago had amounted to: a few dresses that fit into a too-small valise.

“It’s not that we don’t want you here,” Mrs. Carmody had told her the day after the engagement party debacle. “But you understand, don’t you, Clara? Our family is about to have a scandal of its own, what with my husband’s affair. We’re ill equipped to deal with yours.” She went on to explain that she wasn’t going to send Clara off to the Illinois Girls’ School of Reform. “My dear, that was only ever a threat. I’ve spoken to your parents, and they’ve agreed to let you come home.” Aunt Bea pressed her palm against Clara’s cheek. “I think you’ve suffered more than enough.”

It was strange, being asked to leave. The Carmody mansion had come to feel more like a home than her real home in Pennsylvania. In many ways, Clara had even come to like Chicago more than New York. She’d finally found a place where she belonged. Sure, that sense of belonging was based on a character she had created—good old Country Clara—but toward the end, she’d been enjoying herself so much, she’d nearly forgotten she was acting. In a lot of ways, she had become what she’d pretended to be. And she’d liked that role.

Her mementos were scattered across the floor: a program from the Art Institute opening (first kiss with Marcus); a ticket stub from the Buster Keaton movie (first date with Marcus); a strand of fake pearls borrowed from the Unmentionable (Lorraine).

And then there was the red Cartier box.

Clara opened it and fastened the delicate ruby-and-diamond bangle around her wrist. After the engagement party from hell, she had shut Marcus out. He’d come around the Carmody house more than a few times, but she couldn’t bear to talk to him. What was the point?

The bracelet winked at her with an icy glint. She had to give it back to Marcus. It felt strange on her wrist.

Pattering mouselike footsteps came from the hallway, followed by the faint click of a door. Gloria. Whatever Gloria’s feelings were about Clara, she’d be gone by the morning, on
a train back to Pennsylvania. This was the perfect—and only—opportunity to say goodbye, and to pass off the bracelet for Gloria to return.

Summoning whatever strength she had left, Clara knocked quietly on Gloria’s door and pushed it open.

It was the mirror image of her own room: vanity at the foot of the bed, dresser on the far wall, walk-in closet in the corner opposite the door—and a half-filled suitcase open on the bed. What was going on?

Gloria was hovering over the suitcase, hastily stuffing in a wadded-up nightgown. She looked ravishing in a gold lamé dress that shimmered like a burst of sun, a gleam in her eyes that said she planned to get exactly what she wanted. Gloria was no longer playing the part of a singer at a speakeasy, no longer a rebellious child who had bobbed her hair to spite her parents.

Clara’s cousin had truly become a flapper.

“A word of advice if you’re planning to come with me to Pennsylvania,” Clara said, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. “Ditch the dress. A bit showy for a train ride.”

“It’s not just a dress, it’s a Paul Poiret,” Gloria said. She dug through her drawers, throwing clothes like salt over her shoulder. “And I wouldn’t make my New York entrance wearing anything else.”

Gloria was going to New York? Clara was about to
question her, but then remembered how she’d felt when she’d decided to run away from home two years before. “When are you leaving?”

“Tonight.”

“Have you thought this through?”

Gloria didn’t answer. She just kept combing through drawers and casting things into the open maw of the suitcase. “I’ve thought plenty. Staying here isn’t an option. I hope leaving is not a mistake, but even if it is, it is mine to make. Mine and Jerome’s.”

Clara couldn’t stop herself. “Oh my God, are you pregnant? You can tell me if—”

“What? No!” Gloria paused, horrified. “I haven’t even—you know—yet. With anyone.”

Clara perched on the edge of Gloria’s bed. Clara thought of her old feelings for Harris, then her new ones for Marcus. It was like comparing a watercolor by a five-year-old to Monet’s water lilies.

“A word of advice,” Clara said. “Once you give it up, you can’t get it back. And everything gets even more complicated than it already is.”

“Listen,” Gloria said. “I really appreciate your trying to act the older sister and everything”—she scooped a pile of brassieres off the floor—“and I’m sorry if everything didn’t work out the way you planned. But that doesn’t mean it won’t for me. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, Clara. I certainly don’t mean for it to.”

Gloria pressed down the top of her suitcase, trying to close it, only there were too many clothes. “I love Jerome. If our love won’t be allowed to exist here, then we have to find a place where it will. Where we can start fresh.”

“If that’s how it is,” Clara said, studying her cousin’s face and walking over to the bed, “you’re going to need a little help.”

Clara took some of the items off the top of the stack in the suitcase—a red cashmere sweater, a knee-length white cotton skirt—and tossed them onto the floor. “You need to pack lightly. All these clothes are just going to weigh you down. Just buy whatever else you need once you get to New York,” she added, scrutinizing the newly thinned-out contents. “Please tell me you packed money.”

Gloria nodded.

“Are you sure you have enough?”

“I hope so.”

Clara remembered how hard it had been when she’d first arrived in New York, with only a hundred bucks to her name. But then, she had survived, hadn’t she? Pounding the pavement along with everyone else and scrambling to pay her rent, sure—but the scramble was part of New York’s hardscrabble charm.

“Listen, you’re going to take over Manhattan.” Even though Gloria was leaving, Clara had never felt closer to her cousin. “And who knows, maybe I’ll see you there one day soon.”

Gloria squeezed Clara affectionately. “There’s something I want to give you.” Gloria began to stomp around the room, kicking at the piles of clothing on the floor, until she found what she was looking for.

The gold butterfly flask.

“Didn’t I tell you that’s yours to keep?” Clara asked.

“I know, but I figured you might want it. To remember …” Gloria trailed off, a sadness darkening her face.

“Everything I want to remember, I already have,” Clara said. “Besides, it’s a long train ride.” Clara stuffed the flask into Gloria’s clutch.

Gloria buried her head in Clara’s shoulder. “What would I have done without you?”

Clara tugged at a strand of Clara’s hair. “Something tells me you would’ve gotten along just fine. Now, you’d better get a move on! Don’t waste your tears on me.” She dragged Gloria’s suitcase, significantly lighter, off the bed and handed it to her. “And don’t worry about your mother—I’ve got you covered. For a few hours, at least. Remember to use the servants’ entrance.”

Gloria planted a huge kiss on Clara’s cheek. “I’ll send you a telegram once I’m there, all right?”

Clara walked Gloria to the servants’ door, where they briefly hugged one last time.

Then Gloria was off, suitcase in hand, rushing toward whatever journey awaited her. “Good luck,” Clara whispered into the darkness.

Clara went back to her room. She had stuffed Gloria’s bed with pillows so it looked as if she were sleeping there, in case her aunt woke up or Claudine decided to check on Gloria in the middle of the night. Aunt Bea would realize Gloria was gone in the morning, of course, but by then Gloria would be most of the way to New York.

Clara felt happy for Gloria, who was at last becoming someone worth knowing, and sad for herself, who’d become someone nobody wants to admit to knowing.

She thought about that morning’s papers, about the photos and the headlines (she couldn’t bear to read more than that): Lorraine pointing at Clara; Gloria, shocked, in the background. BELLE OF THE BALL HAS SECRET PAST! and SHOCKING SECRETS UPSTAGE THE ENGAGED! and “SHE HAD HIS BABY!” CRIES DRUNK. There had been other pictures inside, Claudine had told her, but those were mostly of Lorraine struggling to get up off the floor.

Clara stripped off her clothes and cranked open the hot tap on the bath. Then she upended the French lavender bath salts her aunt liked to buy but asked the girls to “save for a special occasion.” This was a special occasion if she’d ever seen one. The spigot gurgled and ever so slowly began to fill the tub.

Wrapped in a towel, Clara collapsed onto her bed,
throwing a hand over her eyes. That was when she felt the cool metal scrape of the bracelet on her eyelids.

She had completely forgotten! She waved her wrist in the air above her head, following the diamonds back and forth. She would never get the bracelet back to Marcus in time now. She supposed she could ship it to him from home.

Home. Home wasn’t Pennsylvania. It no longer was Chicago. Really, if Clara was honest with herself, it was New York City.

Where Gloria was bound.

There was a soft knock on her door.

Gloria must have forgotten something. “Hold on!” Clara called out, relieved to have a second chance to remove this damn bracelet. She turned off the tap, retied the towel around herself, and went to the door. “Thank God you came back,” she said, “because I forgot to ask you to—”

“Forgot to ask me what?”

“Marcus!” Clara stumbled back in shock, clutching the top of her towel to prevent it from falling. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped into the room. His blond hair was swept back, and he was wearing a light blue cardigan and light brown trousers. He looked as if he hadn’t slept since the engagement party last night. There were purple circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were sprinkled with light stubble.

“First, tell me what you wanted to ask me.” His voice gave her goose bumps.

She wanted to ask him a million things:
Do you hate me? Can you ever trust me again? Have I ruined my chances by lying to you? Can you ever look at me without thinking of Harris? Without thinking of his baby? Do you love me? Do you love me?

But instead, she extended her arm like a frustrated child. “My bracelet! I can’t undo it.”

He gently took her wrist in his hands. “Did you ever consider that it may not want to be undone?” He opened the clasp and then snapped it shut again, still on her arm.

“Hey!”

“Just be quiet for once.”

Marcus led her to the bed and sat her down, then sat beside her. Clara held her breath as he spread her palms open on his lap. “I knew it,” he said, tracing her life line with his fingertips.